


journey to the lowlands

by foxwedding



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Disassociation, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Multi, Pining, Rape Aftermath, Strong jaskier, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: Jaskier knows that no one is coming for him.  He's going to need to rescue himself.~ + ~Standard Jaskier-gets-captured-by-Nilfgaard-and-tortured fic, but this time, he saves himself.  Please heed the warnings!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 440





	journey to the lowlands

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a translation of _Turas Domhsa chon na Galldachd_ by Clannad. Good stuff.

The third time it happens, Jaskier finally cedes to the relentless pull and retreats into the sanctuary of his own mind. Later, he'll be appalled with himself, but given the current circumstances, he thinks he would ultimately be forgiven if anyone were to ever discover it.

Now, he's with Geralt. They're somewhere in Rinde, maybe, the rolling hills soft and dry underneath his back, the periwinkle sky shot through with berry-colored clouds, the crickets tuning up for their nightly chorus. The evening isn't too humid, nor bitingly cold, and the wind carries tidings from the river into the valley.

Jaskier doesn't particularly want this—this being Geralt rocking rhythmically above him, jostling his shoulders into the dirt with each forward thrust. But it's okay—Geralt's gentle, taking only what he needs, nothing more, and the bard is more than happy to help his friend—honored even—

He stifles a shrill whimper at a particularly brutal thrust— _fuck,_ that _hurt._ Tears bead in the corner of his eyes, lids squeezed shut. He grits his teeth and tries to breathe through the pain—a difficult feat when each violent push punches the air from his lungs.

No, _no_ —the bard is safe here, and cherished and wanted and even though he's not entirely certain how Geralt looks when he comes, Jaskier pictures it nonetheless, and feels nascent tidings of arousal low in his own gut—

—And then it's over. But Jaskier wants to stay here, reclining on the sun-baked ground, inhaling the sweet grass on the breeze, just for a moment longer, just—

The side of his head collides with the unforgiving stone floor as he's stricken across the temple. Jaskier gasps wetly and keeps his eyes shut as the guard pulls free from the bard's body. There's a satisfied groan, followed by the low shuffle of fabric that Jaskier assumes to be the re-tying of breech laces. Heavy footfalls, the whine of hinged iron, and then the echoing clang of the gate closing on his cold and barren cell.

Jaskier opens his eyes. Dim torchlight from beyond the bars catches on the roughly hewn walls. The bard watches the shadows elongate and retreat in minute increments, lets the capricious dance of it fill his senses. Finally, he returns to his body.

He evaluates. Jaskier is here, alive, all limbs and digits accounted for—and these are no small blessings, he reminds himself. Three of the nails on his plucking hand are gone, the raw, bloody tips of his fingers already starting to itch with infection. His left ankle is swollen stiff, his knees scraped and mottled purple, and his ribs are—at the very least—severely bruised, if not fractured. There's a shooting pain in his chest if he inhales too deeply, and a matching one at the bottom of his spine if he moves too quickly.

Jaskier reaches down to prod at himself, grimacing at the slick, cooling wetness between his legs. He brings his fingers close to his face in order to examine them in the dim lighting— _thank Melitele,_ no blood.

It's only the one guard that keeps helping himself to Jaskier's person, and luckily, equipped like a stallion the man is not. Again, tiny blessings.

Jaskier manages to roll himself to one side and wriggle back into his torn, bloodied trousers at an agonizingly slow pace. He cradles his injured hand to his chest and curls into himself, humming a lullaby that he remembers from childhood. His voice is hoarse, barely a rasp above his own wet inhales. His eyes shut of their own accord. Idly, he wonders if he'll wake up.

~ + ~

He does, sadly. Jaskier tries to tuck his face further into the crook of his elbow as cold-water seeps into the thin fabric of his chemise and trickles into his ears. It does nothing to shelter him against the grip on his upper arm that violently hauls him up and against the stone wall. Jaskier can barely keep himself upright, his vision swimming, pain singing in his chest, as manacles close around his wrists, yet again.

The creak of the pulley is the only warning the bard receives before his shackles are hoisted into the air, pulling his body upwards until he's dangling by his bound wrists and scrambling for purchase with his bare toes.

Jaskier forces himself to raise his head and meet the commander's gaze head on. Leaning on the wall paces further, is the man's captain, hands clasped stoically in front of him. Both of them appear gaunt and austere in their Nilfgaardian blacks.

"Same song and dance, then?" Jaskier rasps, before the weight of his head pulls his chin to his chest. 

In a world written by Jaskier, his tone would have been cavalier, cheeky even. But it's now the fourth consecutive day of this, and the bard is starting to wish they'd hurry up and do away with him already. They've spent the past three days trying to beat Geralt of Rivia's whereabouts out of Jaskier. And truly, at this point, if the bard had known, he would've sang already. He's not proud of it, but at least he's honest with himself.

Unfortunately for both Jaskier and his tormentors, the bard had been kicked aside by the man half-a-year prior, left to twiddle his thumbs and find his own fortune. He hasn't the faintest clue where the man has fucked off to, nor does he have any information of even slightly relevant value. He's tried explaining this several times, at length and in breaking screams, but it seems to fall on entirely deaf ears.

"We're going to try something new today, bard." The commander announces, sounding far too pleased with himself for Jaskier to feel any sort of hope.

"Oh, thank the gods," Jaskier retorts, reaching deep within himself. "I was beginning to worry you'd exhausted your entire repertoire."

The commander snorts. "Funny."

Jaskier sighs at the filthy floor, watching water idly creep along the cracks between the stones. "Thank you. I aim to entertain." 

"It's apparent that the witcher is not coming for you—" the other man begins, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on the soles of his feet.

Another small, precious bit of Jaskier breaks at the statement. He'd known of course—even if the witcher wanted _anything_ to do with Jaskier, and even if the man _wasn't_ preoccupied retrieving his little lion cub—no one was even aware Jaskier had been captured. 

"I told you that on day one," the bard exhales.

"—Which means you're really rather useless," the commander concludes. The words cause a rush of— _something_ —to flood Jaskier. Terror? Relief?

Jaskier nearly snorts, finally toeing the edge of the breakdown that he's known was coming since the first night. "Believe it or not, you're not the first to tell me that." 

The commander declines to respond, instead gesturing impatiently towards his captain and eyeing the door meaningfully. Jaskier's heart rate notches up as he watches a small, frail looking man step timidly into the cell. The man eyes his surroundings with extreme distaste, glancing over Jaskier's state with nothing more than a faint grimace.

The bard takes in the man's velvet robes, embroidered with fine stitches of bronze and gold, his immaculately trimmed nails, his un-scuffed traveling boots, and has to swallow down a bolt of laughter. Jaskier's not naïve—he knows this development doesn't bode well for him, but this man looks so half-heartedly interested in the proceedings, that it's nearly humorous. 

"Good gods, man," Jaskier huffs, "Are you lost?"

The commander cuts in before the man can respond. He clasps one white-knuckled claw around a velvet-clad shoulder and warns, "Find something useful, or we'll throw you to Silas as well." The man shudders, the surrounding air ripples in shimmering pulses, and Jaskier's gut plummets.

This is a mage. A _very_ incentivized one.

Jaskier hears himself begging as the man approaches him, arms outstretched, light flickering around the palms of his hands. The bard lurches back, as far as the restraints will allow, the strain sparking sharp heat through his chest.

Of course, it's useless. Jaskier sees the man close in on him, feels the free-fall in his gut as his senses are plundered. He can feel the moment that his conscious is breached—it's not unbearably painful, more nauseatingly disorienting, an intangible violation of his being.

It's a peculiarly unnatural sensation to recall memory after memory without explicitly willing it, Jaskier thinks absently. In his mind's eye, he flits about from scene to scene, staying within some for a split-second, others for the duration of the entire experience—

— _a particularly satisfying chord progression, oh how wonderfully it fits this stanza—_

_—the taste of macerated mint as he spits it into the river water below, swiping a wet rag vigorously across his teeth and gums. He glances backwards towards their campsite. Geralt's hulking back is to him, silhouetted warmly by the fire—_

_—his parchments are scattered haphazardly about the desktop, torn, shredded, doused with ink from his own well and goddamn Valdo to hell—_

_—he's getting on his knees now, shuffling forwards, timidly resting his hands on the insides of the man's thighs. He's never done this before-any of it, not even kissing—but oh, he wants to, wants to taste so badly that he's nearly coming out of his skin—_

_—he swears he didn't mean to—oh no, how will he clean the mess up before mother returns—but, how could he have-shortbread and jam is his absolute favorite, surely, she'll understand—_

Absently, Jaskier begins to see the thread as he's forced to jump. And the deeper the man forces himself into the bard's mind, the more Jaskier's body resists. His heart is racing at such a pace that his chest is beginning to ache, and his lungs cannot seem to get their fill no matter how quickly nor how deeply he inhales. Now, pain sings throughout his body—his head is light with it—but the memories keep coming, no matter how Jaskier tries to twist away from them. 

— _the frigid wind bites at his bare face, the air is so thin on this mountain—_

_—but she's a wounded animal, can't he see it? She's twisted to the point snapping, so deeply damaged, so hopelessly angry that she'll lunge at the first sign of weakness—but maybe that's the attraction? Desperate animals always tend to find each other, for better or worse—_

_—another mouthful hits the dirt, dripping in strings, copper in his mouth, throat scraped raw and nearly swollen shut—_

_—they only ever hurt each other, and Jaskier can only ever watch as it plays out, violent delights, violent ends—_

_—his father's now tomato-red in the face—sure, Jaskier's embarrassed them all, but he still doesn't understand why he's being sent so far away. Oxenfurt is in Redania and Jaskier's never even been beyond the Kerackian borders—_

_—Geralt's eyes are meaner, angrier than he's ever seen, and his mouth is spitting acid and hatred. 'If life would give me one blessing'—_

_—Jaskier wants, and he wants, and he wants for the things he can't have. She's wrapped in furs, looking at them across the tavern, and he'd give his entire world if Geralt would only look at him the way he looks at her—just once, even once-but no. There's no winning games of the heart—_

_—it's taken Jaskier so long, decades to understand, because the truth is, has always been—_

_—the mountain is much darker, much more hostile now that he's descending alone. Each footfall echoes precariously off the barren rocks. Geralt will go after her, he knows it in the marrow of his bones. It's time for Jaskier to stop lying to himself—_

_—you cannot make someone love you._

Jaskier draws air into his heaving lungs, dizzy with the effort and dangling uselessly by his wrists as the sorcerer pulls away. The bard is empty now—all the pieces of him have been snatched away by cruel, hungry hands. His body hasn't been his own since that first night with the guard, and now his memories, too, lie in the hands of another man. Jaskier's got nothing left of himself.

"The sorceress Yennefer of Vengerburg," the mage speaks unsteadily. "She is the witcher's lover. He may be found with her."

Jaskier doesn't look up. It's over. The hot sting of tears prickles down his face, salt washing into the open scrapes on his cheeks. He thinks he might hear the commander respond with something. Maybe not. It doesn't matter now.

His knees hit the floor hard as the pulley is let free, bruised patellas barely registering the shock of pain. The bard slumps, defeated, as he's unshackled, then crumples in on himself entirely when the cell door shuts behind the trio.

~ + ~

The remainder of the day lasts for an eternity yet passes in a blink of an eye. Jaskier lies where he collapsed, blinking slowly at the wood beams and hay-stuck mud that line the ceiling. When a dented tin plate of stale bread and jerky slides under the cell door, he doesn't even turn his head. 

Until nightfall, when the cell door creaks open, and the guard invites himself in. The bard watches as the guard hums to himself while casually unfastening the laces of his breeches, looking all the world like he's entitled to help himself to Jaskier however he sees fit. Not a glance is spared in the bard's direction, yet Jaskier can see how the man's arousal already tents his underclothing.

Jaskier is fully prepared to accept the circumstances, images of Geralt and the valleys of Rinde already bubbling up to his consciousness in preparation. There's a certain comfort in absolute passivity, he thinks. But then— _then_ —the low melody filters in through his cloudy senses.

The man is humming one of Jaskier's _own songs._ The bard sharply turns his head and meets the guard's savage grin. It splits the man's ugly face, unveiling the sort of perverse excitement that only humans are capable of. No other animal delights in cruelty like this, the bard thinks.

Something hot and primal flickers to life deep in Jaskier's gut. He _hates._ He hates the guard, the commander, this cell, all of Nilfgaard—but most of all, the bard hates himself. 

For getting captured as easily as a lamb lead to slaughter.

For breaking like a sniveling child over a handful of bad memories.

For lying back, pathetically fantasizing about a man that hates him, while another man forces himself on Jaskier's body.

Jaskier lets the sentiment settle and grow, while eyeing the way the man drops his belt—heavy with iron keys—onto the ground by the door. He's astounded by how clear his options are. He's ready to become an animal. And if that doesn't work, he's ready to become earth instead. It's that simple.

The bard takes stock of his surroundings—the wooden legs of his ratty cot, the heavy iron manacles and heavier iron chain, a fist-sized piece of stone in the corner by his head—aha. 

Jaskier lets the guard come to him, watching as the other man kneels over him and his weight presses the bard's shoulder blades into the stone floor. The bard waits until the man is distracted by the effort of wrenching his trousers down, his own fingers crawling out towards the wall, slowly, silently. He gathers the jagged stone to his palm, clutching it like a prayer and shifting it until the sharp edges peek out from his fist.

The guard harshly slaps the inside of Jaskier's thigh, trying to force his legs apart, and the sound of it echoes in the bard's ears. 

He feels hot, hotter, searing, effervescent with rage, and then his body moves on its own.

The rock threatens to knock loose from Jaskier's fist with each downwards strike, becoming slippery and warm as he continues, unable to stop as he sobs up at the ceiling. Distantly, he registers yelps turning to groans turning to gurgling. Then to silence. The weight on Jaskier's body becomes intolerably heavy.

When Jaskier finally gathers enough of himself, he rolls the prone figure off and to one side, gasping with exertion. His fingers struggle to unclasp from around the bloody rock, cramping terribly though they are. He scrambles for the belt that had been carelessly tossed aside moments before, tugging free the key ring with shaking, grimy hands.

He staggers out of the cell, locking the door behind him after several clumsy attempts. The hallway is narrow, running between a total of three small cells and ending in a stone stairway. Jaskier moves towards it, steadying himself against the wall every few steps, hoping the cacophony of his own pounding heart won't get him caught.

He peers into each cell as he passes—all empty. He only barely manages the stairs, his knees threatening to give out from under his shifting weight with each footfall. 

Finally, he reaches the landing, lowering to his belly to peek around the corner. The upper floor is a small, torch-lit affair, adorned with a table, two chairs, and three cots. A pot hangs in the unlit hearth, and bags of provisions and waterskins are piled against the wall—a safehouse of sorts, Jaskier supposes.

The bard waits one agonizingly long minute, listening for movement, before concluding the room is empty. _Where is the commander? The captain?_ He wonders if they took off during the day to deliver intel—stolen from Jaskier, of course—to their higher ups. If that's the case, they'll be returning soon, perhaps any moment. The thought spurs the bard to action.

He stumbles over to the supply packs, upending their contents onto the packed-earth floor. As he does so, he swallows down the contents of an entire waterskin, before promptly vomiting it all back up. No matter.

Jaskier swaps his bloody, filthy clothing for a linen chemise, trousers, a jerkin and doublet, all faded Nilfgaardian black. He spies a sparsely-bejeweled dagger, and swipes that as well. He shoves another waterskin, a loaf of bread, a few sticks of jerky, a sack of salted nuts and a pouch of dried fruit into a canvas pack. After that, he loots the second bag and pilfers a handful of loose coins.

Discarded in a corner, he finds his lute, unharmed and lying peacefully in its case—some feat of elven magic, no doubt. Jaskier could almost cry at his luck, before remembering his missing nails. _Hmm._

He steps out into the night. The air is balmy but smells of sweet grass and sounds of crickets. Even as his injured ankle protests each forwards step, the earth is warm under his feet and, somehow, the waxing sliver of moon gives enough light to navigate. 

Jaskier shifts his pack and lute on aching shoulders as he surveys the landscape. He needs to find a safe place to sleep, a healer, and Yennefer of Vengerburg, in that order. He's going to warn her to protect herself and Geralt—whether she heeds it or not is out of Jaskier's hands. After that—well, he doesn't know yet. Maybe he'll know it when he sees it.

For now, he needs to get away from this place. So Jaskier does what he's always done, what his blood and bone always sing for. He orients himself to the northern star and just starts— _moving._

**Author's Note:**

> One shot? Continue? Haven't quite decided yet. Let me know your thoughts!


End file.
